


Carol of the Heart

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: It's Christmas and after an incident, Greg finds himself staying with Mycroft Holmes, and is asked to accompany him to an event.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 22
Kudos: 135
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2020





	Carol of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrynTWedge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/gifts).



> Once again I thank @Lavender_and_Vanilla for patiently beta-ing another story of mine. 
> 
> I started this one in December 2019 but didn't finish until now.

Greg Lestrade hadn’t felt the tears that were rolling down his cheeks until the woman sitting next to him nudged him gently and handed him a tissue.

“First time?” she whispered, smiling friendly.

Dabbing his eyes, Greg nodded. “He… they...” He gestured to the choir, incapable of describing the music.

Greg managed to blow his nose, barely making a sound, before his universe once more shrank to the size of the sight and voice of Mycroft Holmes, who was standing in St. Pancras Church singing Christmas carols together with about forty other boys and men, accompanied by the church’s organ.

* * *

Earlier that day...

It was the 24th December. Greg’s day began shortly after three o’clock in the morning when he and everybody else living in that block of flats were woken by the shrieking of smoke detectors and the wailing of the sirens of several fire engines arriving. Greg threw on some clothes, grabbed his wallet, mobile phone and keys and ran from the building, more or less carrying his eighty year old neighbour as he rushed outside.

Shivering in the cold, he could only watch in terror the adjoining building burning, while the fire-fighters tried dousing the flames and rescuing people and pets from a flat on the second floor.

In a sense he’d been lucky because the house he lived in had been mostly spared but it would be impossible to return to his flat for at least a couple of days because of the smoke. Before Greg could even consider where to go he received a text from Sherlock, telling him to come to 221b Baker Street.

When Greg arrived, he expected to be expected but instead a grumpy and highly irritated John Watson had opened the door, clearly having been woken up by Greg ringing the doorbell. Sherlock was not even home, as it turned out. John offered Greg the sofa and went back to bed.

Mycroft, who had also been summoned to 221b by Sherlock via text, discovered Greg asleep on the sofa about a couple of hours later.  
Unwilling to put up with a John Watson, who was as pissed as an anthill that had been kicked a couple of times too often, Mycroft had bundled the bleary-eyed Detective Inspector into the waiting car outside and took him home, offering to accommodate him in a spare bedroom.

Greg had woken up to the quiet sound of rustling clothes some hours later. Blinking awake he’d found Mycroft trying to pull what looked like a robe from the closet in the room Greg had slept in. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, Greg startled Mycroft, who turned to look at his guest.

“I’m sorry, Gregory, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

Gregory? Alright, he could live with that. Much better than insisting to use his title like Mycroft did most of the time.

“It’s fine.” He stretched, feeling better rested than in weeks. “What time is it?”

“Half past four in the afternoon.”

The last time he slept that long on Christmas Eve, Greg still was a teenager. Well, unless he counted the times he pulled all-nighters at Scotland Yard.

“What’s this?” Greg asked, indicating the robe Mycroft was still clutching to his chest.

“This, ah, it’s a robe.”

Now Greg was intrigued. “I can see that it’s a robe.” He gave Mycroft a lop-sided smile, trying to communicate that he wasn’t trying to make fun of him but was merely curious.

With a sigh, Mycroft unfolded the garment and held it up. “It’s the official attire of members of the choir of my university.”

Greg swung his legs from the bed and stood up. Needing to have a closer look, he was oblivious to the longing in Mycroft’s gaze as his inquisitive eyes swept appraisingly over his guest’s body clad only in briefs and a t-shirt.

“You sang in the choir at uni?” Greg asked, curiously touching the maroon robe adorned with a cream-coloured yoke.

Mycroft bit his lip and Greg could see the man’s mental struggle before he said, “Let’s have tea and perhaps,” Mycroft swallowed, his cheeks turning a becoming shade of pink, “you’d be interested in accompanying me this evening?”

Over tea Mycroft told Greg how he used to sing in the university’s choir. For a few years he returned frequently to sing at their concerts. Singing relaxed him but eventually work had caught up with him and he hadn’t sung for several years. Then Sherrinford happened. Mycroft had been close to a mental breakdown and the government had insisted that he saw a therapist. To Mycroft’s surprise the therapist actually understood his profession. On his therapist’s advice Mycroft returned to singing with the choir, and tonight would be their Christmas concert at St. Pancras Church.

“Are your parents coming?” Greg asked, immediately sorry because Mycroft looked as if he’d been slapped in the face.

“My parents didn’t know that I sang in the choir and they mustn’t know now. Never!” Mycroft replied forcefully. Closing his eyes for a moment he composed himself. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“It’s alright,” Greg said, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder gently, brown eyes full of compassion. He knew that both Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s relationship with their parents, especially their mother, was complicated.

“Sherlock?” he asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “My brother isn’t interested in my,” he hesitated for a moment, “my hobbies.”

He took the empty cups to rinse them quickly before putting them into the dishwasher.

“I’ve never been to one of those concerts but I’m not sure I have the appropriate clothes with me.” Greg eyed the trousers, shirt and jumper he wore.  
He refrained from mentioning that he wasn’t particularly fond of Christmas music to begin with. The songs about a red-nosed reindeer and Santa Claus kissing mummies almost made his teeth ache. It was made even worse hearing them in the supermarkets for weeks on end.

Mycroft would have deduced the reason for Greg’s remark, but his back was turned and he was nervous. Nervous for having suggested that Greg came to the concert. He’d never asked anybody in the past. Within the choir he disappeared into the background. Just one man among many, clad in colourful robes, anonymous and free to enjoy the music they made.

“You’d need to wear a coat because it’s not particularly warm in the church.” Mycroft finally looked at his counterpart again. “Naturally you don’t have to come,” he added softly, finally deducing Greg’s reluctance.

Upon seeing Mycroft’s crestfallen expression, Greg berated himself for behaving like an idiot, thoroughly ashamed. Here was Mycroft, incredibly private, a man Greg cared for, willing to share his passion. A passion his parents would make joyless and his brother had no interest in.

“No, I’d like to come and hear you sing. Furthermore, I only know you clad in Saville Row suits, and I want to see you in that robe.” He grinned encouragingly, and Mycroft smiled back shyly.

“Perhaps I could borrow one of your coats and a scarf?”

* * *

The last notes of All Bells in Paradise, a song that had been so utterly beautiful it had brought tears to Greg’s eyes, had only just faded away when the choirmaster addressed the audience, requesting they all join in singing their last song, Oh come all ye faithful. Greg rose to stand with all the others.

The lights, previously dimmed, were brighter now for them to read the text on the leaflet they had received upon entering the church. When Greg looked up from the lyrics, he saw that Mycroft was watching him, his gaze intense. Across the room, brown eyes met blue-grey ones and Greg died a little because he felt like he was floating under Mycroft’s gaze. He kept singing as best as he could, incapable of looking away, and if anybody bothered to pay attention, they would recognise the deep affection both men shared for each other.

The song ended and thunderous applause from a grateful audience returned Greg to reality so suddenly he almost stumbled when people started to move around him. Coats were buttoned up, scarves and woollen hats donned, and excited chatter erupted all around him.

Still somewhat dazed, Greg allowed himself to be pushed along, but he whirled round when he recognized the voice of Mrs Hudson coming from somewhere behind him.

“That was such a beautiful concert, Sherlock. Thank you for taking me.”

Amidst the audience who was pushing towards the exit, Greg could make out the familiar dark curls of none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. The consulting detective spotted Greg about the same moment and the expression on his face could only be described as startled embarrassment.

Greg waved to him gleefully but kept walking towards the vestry, where he knew he’d find Mycroft. He couldn’t help feeling elated because Sherlock’s presence clearly stated that he did care for his sibling and his singing after all.

Following a couple into the vestry, Greg was greeted by the joyful chatter of the members of the choir as well as their spouses, families, and friends.

It took a moment before he spotted Mycroft, who’d just allowed another man to help him take off the long robe the members of the choir wore. His arms in the air the robe was pulled over his head, leaving the usual meticulous man in a somewhat dishevelled state. As Mycroft had stretched to allow the robes being pulled over his head, Greg’s eyes roamed appreciatively over the pair of dark-grey trousers and the soft blue jumper Mycroft wore. For perhaps a second he’d also spotted a sliver of skin between the hem of the jumper and the waistband.

That really shouldn’t be as tantalizing as Greg felt it was. He swallowed the desire that bubbled up inside his belly - desire as well as an unhealthy dose of bright hot jealousy, as he watched the man who’d initially helped Mycroft, just received a helping hand in return. Greg involuntarily clenched his fists and tried to suppress a snarl.

Mortified, he blushed to a bright scarlet when he found Mycroft was looking at him with a slight frown, obviously baffled by the feelings Greg displayed. Then Mycroft’s expression turned to a sanguine smile. He quickly donned his coat and expertly folded his robe into a carrier bag.

“I’m ready to leave, Gregory,” Mycroft said.

“It was a lovely concert. Whatever I expected, it certainly wasn’t such beautiful music.” Greg knew he babbled but finding himself in the focus of Mycroft’s intelligent eyes, made him feel vulnerable.

Mycroft placed the tip of his index finger on Greg’s lips. “Shush. Don’t fret, Gregory,” he said. “Let’s go home.” And with a nod in the general direction of the other choir members, one gentle hand at the small of Greg’s back, Mycroft steered them towards the exit.

Once outside, they headed for the parking garage. The temperatures had dropped further and the air smelled of snow.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m famished,” Mycroft said, digging through a pocket of his coat to find the car keys.

As if on cue, Greg’s stomach rumbled his agreement.

“My parents went on a cruise this Christmas, so I don’t have to spend the day at their house.”

“Hallelujah,” Greg offered and Mycroft grinned.

“Indeed.”

They climbed into the car and Mycroft started the motor. “I ordered the Christmas menu for two from my favourite restaurant in Mayfair as take-away. It’s enough for a single person to last four days, contrary to Sherlock’s opinion who believes that I eat everything in a single eating frenzy. Unless you have plans, we could share the food.”

Some hours earlier, Greg had considered volunteering for work and enjoying a festive Sunday roast from a pub near Scotland Yard. Mycroft’s offer sounded much better though. Not only for the food, which he’d undoubtedly enjoy a great deal more, but also for the man’s company.

“I really wouldn’t want to impose but that sounds incredibly good, Mycroft.”

Finally leaving the parking garage and merging with the traffic, Mycroft smiled. “The food is pre-cooked and just has to be heated in the oven for half an hour.”

“Now that’s what I’d call convenient,” Greg commented.

“Would you like to know what their menu actually is?” The smile was audible in Mycroft’s voice.

Greg tilted his head and studied the man driving. “Probably something so fancy I wouldn’t be able to pronounce if correctly?”

“I admit that I enjoy a large variety of foreign cuisine but for Christmas I prefer something more traditional,” Mycroft confessed. “The main course of the menu is Barbary duck and duck Wellington served with roast potatoes, leafy greens with lardons, red cabbage, apple quince and Yorkshire pudding.”

“That sounds very, very delicious.” Greg had to swallow because he started salivating just from Mycroft describing the food. “But,” he held up a finger, “unless you let me pay for half of it, I insist that I invite you for dinner at a later time.”

Mycroft was glad for the red light that had stopped them a few seconds before. He needed a little time to process the thought that Greg not only wanted to spend Christmas with him, an uninhabitable flat notwithstanding, but was planning to spend more time with him in the foreseeable future.

“I agree. To the option of you and I having dinner again,” he said eventually.

“Great!” Greg got comfortable in his seat. Being chauffeured through London by a gorgeous man, a man he would spend Christmas and share dinner with tonight and tomorrow, plus another dinner date on the horizon, was pretty much his idea of perfect.

Less than an hour later, both men were busy in Mycroft’s kitchen. Unpacking the food; heating the oven; pulling out plates, glasses, cutlery; and laying the table, Mycroft couldn’t help noticing that they moved around the kitchen as a tandem as if they’d done this for years. Not a single time did they bump into each other. It felt like a dance they’d practised to perfection.  
Once all food had been placed inside the oven and the timer was set, Mycroft took two bottles of wine from his wine cabinet.

“Do you have any preference, Gregory? I think both the Tempranillo and the Burgundy should match well with our meal.”

Greg shook his head. “Not really. How about the Burgundy today and the Tempranillo tomorrow?”

Mycroft nodded and returned one bottle to the cabinet. Once he’d opened the other to let the wine breathe, he looked calmly at his visitor, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Since we have twenty-eight minutes left until our meal is ready, why don’t you explain your perplexing reaction from the vestry.”

Greg’s eyes went wide and his complexion turned a deep scarlet in a very short time.

“Reaction? I don’t know what you mean,” he squeaked, knowing that he was so spectacularly unconvincing not even Anderson would have believed him.

“When Jeff helped me out of my robe and I helped him in return, the way you watched gave me the impression you were jealous.”

Greg had his arms wrapped around himself and barely knew where to look, uncertain what to say.

Mycroft took a step closer and tipped the man’s head up with a gentle hand under his chin. “In case you actually were jealous, you have no reason. Jeff is happily married and has three children. There is only one man I’m interested in.” Mycroft looked deeply into Greg’s dark eyes, doing his best to communicate it was him he was talking about.

Rubbing his neck nervously, Greg studied Mycroft’s face. “Would that man by any chance work for Scotland Yard?” he asked.

It was difficult but Mycroft managed not to smile. “He does.”

Feeling his confidence rise, Greg bit his lip. “And he has the rank of a DI?”

“Very astute, Gregory,” Mycroft drawled. He shifted slightly, barely moved, but suddenly stood mere inches from Greg.

Greg swallowed. “You know that I’m a suspicious person. Guess that comes with the job. Would you allow me to kiss you to test a theory on the identity of that person.”

“That would be acceptable,” Mycroft replied, before he leaned forward to meet Greg half-way for a kiss.

Their lips met in a soft brush of warm, moist skin. That first kiss lasted all but a second, but then Mycroft kissed him again. This time his lips were moving a little against Greg’s, the kiss sweet, lingering. With a groan, Greg’s hands came up. One went for the back of Mycroft’s neck, the thumb stroking the soft hair there, the other finding hold between Mycroft’s shoulder-blades to prevent the man from moving away.  
Again they moved apart for a second and Greg noticed only then that his eyes had slid shut. Moments later, soft palms cupped his face as Mycroft fit his mouth on Greg’s with great precision and as if on cue, they both parted their lips for a more thorough kiss. Time seemed to stop when their tongues finally touched.

Of course, it didn’t really stop because the buzz of the oven’s timer returned them to reality.

Mycroft switched off the oven and opened the door just a little to let the most delicious scent escape before they looked at each other again.

“Oh my god, did we…?”

“Kiss for approximately 25 minutes?” Mycroft finished Greg’s sentence. “Yes, we did.”

They both grinned at each other as Greg’s stomach gave a rumble.

He put a hand on his stomach. “I think I need to do something about this before I continue snogging your socks off.”

Mycroft huffed. “That sounds like something teenagers do.” He pulled on a pair of oven-mittens to retrieve the hot bowls.

“Why don’t you switch the radio on for some music and pour the wine. I think it aired long enough.”

Mycroft placed first trivets on the table and then brought the bowls with the food.

Greg switched on the radio as requested. Pouring the wine as Mycroft placed the last bowl on the table, he softly sang along with the Christmas song on the radio.

“Gregory, did I hear you correctly?” Mycroft looked at Greg, who tried unsuccessfully to appear as the incarnation of wide-eyed innocence.

“I don’t know what you heard.” Greg’s angelic expression fooled no-one and certainly not Mycroft.

“You sang, “I’m dreaming of a wild Christmas!”

“And if I did?” Greg bit his lower lip.

“Since Christmas is a time of dreams coming true,” Mycroft pulled Greg close by the belt loops of his trousers and placed a kiss on the tip of his nose, “let us eat before we... jingle some bells.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to listen to All Bells in Paradise by John Rutter, check out the King's College Choir singing it. So beautiful, at least in my opinion.


End file.
